


Every Breath You Take

by alienchrist



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Amnesia, Grief/Mourning, M/M, Mistaken Identity, Obsessive Behavior, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Sickfic, Stalking
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-10-27
Updated: 2016-10-27
Packaged: 2018-08-27 08:14:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 13,861
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8393968
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alienchrist/pseuds/alienchrist
Summary: Still in a fog of grief after his lover's death years ago, Zevran meets a young man who closely resembles him under mysterious circumstances. Zevran becomes obsessed with finding out the truth of the apostate mage who seems to have forgotten him, or perhaps never met him at all.





	1. Lacuna

**Author's Note:**

> I lost my original copy of this story, posted to the Dragon Age Kink Meme in 2013, with some half-written chapters and the original outline, which is one of a few reasons I abandoned the fic. My interest has become renewed in possibly finishing the story, so I've decided to post it.

Orion Surana died minutes after the archdemon fell.

Zevran once heard in a song that grief was an ocean. Not so. The ocean was apparently endless, but in the end, there were still shores. It was comprehensible. It carried life in the form of whales, sharks, fish and birds. It changed daily. It could be swum through, or passed over in a boat.

When Orion Surana, known to others as Hero of Ferelden, but known to Zevran as his lover, wearer of his earring, died, his grief was not an ocean.

It was the sky.

Endless in all directions. Cold and heartless, and ever present over his head, unchanging. Orion was the sun and moon. Without them, his life held no light. And yet he could not bring himself to end things. The Warden's other companions tried to look out for him in their own way. Alistair attempted to pawn the mabari off on him, specifically against the wishes in Orion's final testament. Leliana offered to take him to the Chantry, or the alienage where the library was being set up in Orion's memory, then sat with him quietly for awhile. Wynne shared a few stories of the young, aloof elf in mage tower, and reminded him of how fiercely Orion defended their relationship to her. Ohgren bought every round one night and they sat at the bar competing until he shouted, "Even though he looked like a lady in those skirts, he was a brother to me!" and passed out on the floor. Even Sten sought him out, gave him a some of his typical Qunari compliments clothed in insults, and reminded Zevran that Orion had a good death serving his purpose.

They were lovely gestures. Only Leliana ever thought much of him in the first place, and Zevran knew he should appreciate that he was part of their family now, part of the precious few who knew the true face of the Hero of Ferelden. But their sadness was not comparable. Alistair, Leliana and Wynne had red, rheumy eyes and bit back tears when they thought no one was looking. So far as he could tell, Oghren belched and farted his sadness. In that way, Sten's refusal or inability to mourn came the closest. Zevran's sadness was an absence of sadness. He was so far away from the rest of them he barely heard their voices when they spoke.

Zevran floated through a few months in Denerim. Stayed for the memorial, for Alistair's coronation. Helped train some of Alistair's guards: it was good to keep busy. Sometimes he went to the Pearl, but it was mostly to drink, or to talk with the elf man Orion once hired there. When the Crows struck at him in an alley near the Pearl, he decided it was time to leave. Leliana saw him to the gates. She gave him a hug, he gave her a smile he did not feel, and he walked away without once looking back.

Without his sun and moon in the sky Zevran operated in total darkness. He knew no other way to cope than to be cold, but that was a boon for someone looking to destroy a guild of assassins. Orion detested injustice of all kinds, and always hated the Crows for what they did to Zevran. It seemed fitting that he fought them now. That was the sort of thing they used to talk about in bed while Orion traced his tattoos with a look of wonder.

Still, he felt no satisfaction even as he watched entire Crow cells implode. He smiled and laughed with the former Crows he recruited into his service, but even as he met so many brothers and sisters in arms, he never befriended them. Even with the victories and shift of power, knowing that someday soon, he would be in the position to take on the guild master and change the lives of hundreds in the Crows, nothing seemed to touch his heart.

It was better that way. Simpler.

Years passed. Even as Zevran staged a coup in Antiva City tantamount to revolution, his own heart barely changed. He openly forgot the names of people he slept with and drove more than a few sweet men and women to tears. His smiles were as plentiful as ever but held no focus. He did not take food or wine as he used to. They tasted stale and ashen.

This made his shock when he received a letter calling him back to Ferelden all the more surprising. Nothing jolted him from the malaise like the letter from Alistair. _The library is finished, and we're having a dedication ceremony. We also found some journals of his and I thought you should see them before anyone else. There's one other matter discuss when you get here. Yours, A & C_

The letter was hastily penned in slovenly writing that had to be Alistair's. The signature was a bit better, probably the only bit of writing King Alistair got much practice in.

Zevran realized the C must be for 'Chompy', Orion's mabari. Alistair even drew a little paw print next to it.

It was unwise for him to travel alone, yet Zevran booked his passage immediately, traveling anonymously in the night. He could not say why this suddenly drove him, why the knowledge of a journal might move him so. He knew Orion wrote nightly. When he left Ferelden, he thought he would never want to know those private thoughts, that reading the secrets Orion guarded so closely would be the ultimate acceptance of his loss. Now he desperately wanted anything of Orion's, even if it was only writing from days that could never be relived.

Like a plant left in a room with curtains drawn, he withered without Orion.

Zevran did not notice the sickness setting at first. It was just another unpleasant sensation to be ignored, like hunger or pain, things he accidentally found himself ignoring for days on end. He caught a whiff of damp in Antiva that followed him to the Free Marches. By the time he was on a boat back to Ferelden, he was coughing. The sickness took hold.

It made sense in a twisted way. Zevran was one of the Crows fortunate enough to never get sick during his training time. Illness was a weakness to the Crows, and apprentices who were ill enough to miss a lesson never attended a lesson again. He did his time with poisons, but it was not the same. Through his years of running, sleeping lightly, eating little, he wore down his own natural defenses. Something ugly settled in his lungs and would not leave no matter how much elfroot potion he drank.

He thought his strength mostly recovered during the trip over the sea. The whole boat ride was like a troubling dream, but all the sleep he took seemed to help. But a day after docking near Highever he was coughing worse than ever, and a little blood came up with the mucus.

Zevran pressed on down the road, suddenly regretting his decision to travel unaccompanied. A weak elf alone on the open road was a target for bandits and worse. Still, he could do nothing but stagger onward. Indeed, it seemed like that was the only real thing he could ever do.

Relief flooded him as he approached a small roadside inn shortly after nightfall. It was little more than a hovel, leaning slightly to one side as if the second story were the misplaced second layer of a haphazard cake. He saw a small stable for livestock and heard the bleat of a goat. A stocky dwarf girl, no older than 11, pumped water from the nearby well. He was about to call out to her when he suddenly decided coughing and crumpling in a near-faint was a far better option. Yes, he was dizzy and the ground looked quite comfortable and his chest felt burned by millions of tiny pinpricks, like someone was tattooing him from the inside out.

"Mother!" the girl shouted as she stampeded into the house. "Momma!"

Soft footsteps approached Zevran from the direction of the stable. Light but firm hands gently rolled him onto his side, and a cool hand pressed to his forehead.

"You're burning up."

Zevran felt the comforting, familiar wash of a healing spell. He struggled to sit up. Though the cough subsided, he was still weak as milk tea.

Kneeling next to him was a young elf man in his twenties. His red hair seemed ignited by the lamplight of the inn behind him. Though his features were in shadow, his eyes were filled with concern.

Vivid blue eyes. The color of autumn dusk. The color of his _sky_.

"Orion?" Zevran croaked out.

The elf frowned. "Can you walk a little? I'm going to help you up."

Zevran hoped he nodded. He couldn't quite tell.

He tried to get a good look at the man as he carefully pulled him to his feet. Everthing about him was an echo of Orion, from his his sharp-nosed profile to the shade of his skin, slightly darker than Zevran's. Even his outlandishly red hair was identical, though it was only chin-length. He lacked the elaborate black eye make up Orion was fond of drawing on his face, as well as his feathered robes, but Zevran could suppose many reasons for that. It would not do for the Hero of the Blight to call attention to himself while he was at some rat-trap inn, after all.

But why was he here?

"Just relax. I'll look after you." The elf's voice was soothing. The timbre was light, the words deliberate and well-formed. There was no doubt in Zevran's mind that this was Orion, but nothing about that made sense. He held Orion as he drew his last breaths . He saw his lover buried. Could this be some hallucination, brought by the sickness? Nothing made sense. The world danced a reel around him.

"I thought you were dead," Zevran rasped as Orion led him to the stable and led him to stretch out on a straw pallet in one of the empty stalls.

"I'm fine," Orion said with a touch of gentle amusement. "You're the one who's ill. Do you mind if I take your clothes off? It will be easier to examine you."

"Tell me what happened," Zevran said, reaching out for Orion. Orion was too focused on removing his gauntlets and chest piece to notice. "Why are you here?"

"You fell just outside the inn. I'm going to do what I can." Orion's hands glowed blue, tingling against him. "It's just as I thought, your throat and lungs are in a bad way. Hold on." 

Orion threw a scratchy, goat-smelling blanket over Zevran's naked chest before standing to speak with two people in the doorway. Zevran closed his eyes and tried to get the world to stop spinning. He could not help but smile. Orion was here!

Zevran caught only snippets of the conversation. The inkeeper and her wife were concerned about rumors. Not just of sickness in their inn, but of alerting other unwanted attention.

"I know, that's why I gave him my bed. I don't mind sleeping in the hay."

Orion detested camping. He used to wax poetic about his bed in the mage quarters he never got to sleep in.

Why would he stay in this wretched barn? Zevran wondered blearily.

"I'll stay just long enough to help him recover." That calm, steady voice never allowed room for disagreement. "Then I'll be on my way. I'm sure it won't be more than a day or so."

"And what of your friend?"

"Why do you think all elves know each other?" Orion hissed. "He's a traveler. His clothes are well-made, so he perhaps he will wish to stay at the inn when he's come to his senses. Right now he is delirious, he really shouldn't be left alone."

The women gave some murmurs of grudging agreement.

"Thank you again, both of you. I know what I'm asking isn't easy."

Zevran caught a glimpse of Orion's clothes as he returned to his bedside. Simply-spun stuff, typical of a city elf, a far cry from the fine robes Orion once preened in. He smelled like the stable, like fur and shit and clean, sweet hay.

"Why are you here, Orion? Have you been here all this time? Did I offend you somehow, that you would not tell me you live on?"

To his own disgust, Zevran sounded near tears.

"I'm sorry, you are unwell," Orion simply said as he removed the blanket. "Please drink this. I'm going to have another look at you."

Zevran choked down an entire elfroot potion under Orion's watchful gaze. He considered vomiting it up, refusing the help, refusing to face life and this confusing reality.

Or was this reality? Maybe the only truth here was that he was unwell, as Orion said. Perhaps the battle for Denerim never happened. Perhaps that was the fever dream, and he was only now coming out of it. Yes, that could be it. He dreamed these horrible, lonely years, but Orion was by his side all along. The battle for Denerim hadn't happened yet, and he might yet find a way to save his lover if he survived the night.

"I do not understand, I thought you were dead," Zevran said. "Orion, _mi amor_ , please tell me what is going on."

"You are unwell," Orion repeated carefully. "We can talk when you're feeling better. Rest now."

"Very well, I do only as you ask, as always."

Orion settled in a cross-legged slouch beside him.

"I don't know if you can understand me at all in the state you're in, but I want you to know you're in good hands. I've treated fevers like this in the past. I understand you are afraid but I promise you can trust me."

"With my life, of course."

"...Not sure if I deserve that much trust, but thank you." There was a hint of warmth in that self-deprecating chuckle. Zevran could taste his heart breaking, being this close to Orion and having everything so wrong. He did not even have the strength to embrace his beloved.

Orion laid a warm hands on Zevran. He tingled inside and out as the mage concentrated his spells on the areas most damaged by the sickness. It was not so different from having injuries healed after battles, but he found it made him even more tired, not being swathed in the rush of battle. Zevran soon found himself relaxing. Sleep nipped at his heels. Though it was keen to overtake him, he resisted. Did not want to lose these precious few moments with Orion after so long.

He reached for Orion again. This time the young man took his hand.

Orion hummed a tune, the elvhen folk song Leliana was so fond of butchering, squeezing Zevran's hand rhythmically. In spite of his best efforts, sleep threw its net over Zevran, and he tumbled into the Fade.

Zevran woke slowly after many hours of fitful sleep. It was his habit to keep his eyes closed and take stock, especially in new places. He listened and observed every detail, painting a mental picture of the world around him so he could not be taken by surprise when he opened his eyes. It was mid-afternoon judging by the warmth of the sun on his face. He would need to get up to relieve himself soon. He wondered if he had the strength for it.

He placed the women Orion spoke to earlier in the inn, listening carefully to their movements. One was a human, the other a dwarf. On the bottom floor he could hear the dwarf woman roasting meat on a spit, goat, he thought from the smell. She cursed softly, wishing it were nug. The human woman was beating rugs on the lawn. The inn itself was rather light on patrons, he only counted one - an aging minstrel plucking at what sounded like a battered old lute. The dwarf child he saw pumping water last night was not there, perhaps at school or off playing somewhere. Orion was behind the shed, chopping wood for the fire no doubt. That made Zevran smile. An elven woodcutter. Certainly not the sort of thing he ever expected his precious mage to do.

Wait.

Who was that boy, really?

Zevran quickly reviewed the facts. A swarthy redhead with blue eyes, a spirit healer, and an elf, obviously. His voice and manner of speech had seemed to him just like Orion's, but he could not be certain how right of mind he was at the time. As far a he knew, the his new friend could be just an ordinary apostate.

Who just happened to look, sound and feel very similar to Orion.

And was about his age.

And held his hand.

Coincidence, Zevran warned himself.

He knew for certain Orion was dead. _He clutched his lover's frail form as he breathed his last atop Fort Drakon._

_"Glad that's over, I was getting really sick of that thing," Orion wheezed._

_"Darkspawn blood really isn't your color," Zevran agreed._

_Orion said nothing and Zevran said no. Again and again and again._

Zevran scrubbed his eyes with the heels of his palm. Who knew a fever could hurt one's eyes as well?

The whole barn was neatly kept, but old. There were gaps in the boards from many years of expanding and contracting, and rags stuffed in to keep out a chill. It was really not such a great place for animals, nor elves, truly, though there were plenty poor enough to leap at the chance. So there was the likely story. His savior was simply a young man doing some labor for a safe bed and a hot meal, likely ducking the templars.

It could not be Orion.

Though he had no appetite, Zevran choked down some cold porridge and greasy soup that was left for him, along with a tin cup full of well water. Then he managed another potion. Regardless of who the healer was, he was skilled, and Zevran felt certain he could put this whole mess behind him and continue to Denerim in a day or two.

"You're up. How are you feeling?"

Not-Orion cleared away the dishes, and knelt beside him to feel his forehead with his wrist and check his pulse, then looked him over.

"Better, much better," Zevran said. "I do believe the worst is over. Thank you."

"You don't owe me thanks for doing the right thing," Not-Orion said with a soft snort, trying to cover up he was pleased.

It was the sort of thing Orion said all the time.

Zevran forced himself to look at the other elf. A long, hard look to prove to himself once and for all this young man was not Orion. His hair was shorter, he had no eye make up and he wore dirty old clothes that did not suit him, but those were the only differences he noticed. They were all cosmetic. The timbre of his voice was not imagined. The longer he looked, the more convinced he was that this mage was his lover, without a doubt.

But why here and now? Was some fiendish magic responsible? He could hardly imagine that Orion would go into deep cover in a flea-bitten inn for years without telling him. Especially if he wasn't even hiding his magic to help apparent strangers.

"Who are you?" Zevran muttered, almost forgetting that the person in front of him was an elf, not a vision produced by his imagination.

"I'm Lacuna," Orion (?) said.

Zevran tried to recall if at any he point he might have gone completely, stark-raving mad. He decided he probably would not be able to tell.

"Lacuna," he said, trying the name out. Each syllable felt like a cold, smooth stone on his tongue. Beautiful, but almost too heavy to move. "It is a pleasure to meet you."


	2. Gaps

Zevran stared at Orion, wondering why he picked the name Lacuna. The silence between them stretched into awkwardness before Zevran suddenly said, "Gaps!"

"Gaps?" Orion repeated, raising an eyebrow.

"Lacuna, as in a gap, yes?" Zevran fumbled for where he might have heard the meaning. Gaps in memory. Wasn't there a spell like that? It seemed like the sort of thing Tevinter mages would think up, creating gaps in memory. It seemed like something Orion would know. Desperation made his heart beat faster. He had a question for Orion, who was right here, and yet he could not answer it.

"Oh, right." Orion tugged at one of his strands of hair, one of his typical fidget-gestures when he was thinking. "It's actually Lacuna as in snails." He smiled. "I guess Lacuna would refer to their shells?" He twirled his finger, indicating the shape of snail shell curl.

"And how did you come by such a name?"

Orion gently pushed Zevran's shoulders. "How did you come by such curiosity?" he snorted. "Lie down properly. You need more rest."

Zevran obeyed. "You did not answer my question."

"I'm not going to tell you every little thing about me. You haven't even told me your name!" Ah, yes, there was the part of Orion's personality that was like that, too. Impudent, bratty even. Without it, it would be all too easy to forget how truly young and inexperienced he was when he was turned out of of the Tower.

"It is Zevran. Zevran Arainai. Zev to my friends."

"Zev, then." Zevran watched Orion's mouth, the way his lips formed the unusual sounds, the slight dimple in his right cheek when he smiled afterward. That shy smile was quickly replaced by a frown of realization. "That sounds familiar..."

"There are occasions under which you might have heard it," Zevran suggested. "My name is not unknown." While he was nowhere as famous as Orion Surana or King Alistair, he had his part to play in the story. He even accompanied Orion for the final fight. He intended to cut through the crowds of darkspawn with Oghren, but instead spending most of the battle repairing the frequently-jammed ballistae. Yet there was no denying he was integral to the outcome.

(If they had not worn down the archdemon, if instead they had fled, waited for more Wardens, would Orion have died? Zevran had never before regretted winning a fight.)

"You're kind of a dangerous person, aren't you Zev? I apologize, but I looked through your things to see if you had any medicine you needed, or some indication of someone who might be missing you right now. I think I almost died about ten times."

As an assassin, naturally Zevran never carried things with his name on them, or letters. Habit, to make sure not to be identified. Not that Zevran was making too much of an effort, what with introducing himself by name and all.

"I might be," Zevran purred. "Some have said I'm most dangerous to the heart."

"Right." Orion rolled his eyes, but he did not move away, kept leaning in rather closely.

"Or was it some other part I am most dangerous to?" Zevran smirked.

Orion sat back on his heels, expression suddenly cold and impassive. Zevran could almost hear some door in his mind slamming shut, loud and fast. Funny, Orion always liked dirty jokes before. "You must be feeling better if you're hitting on complete strangers," Orion said, unimpressed. "Unless the fever completely fried your brain. Have you been coughing at all?"

"No, not since you first laid hands on me."

"Good. Rest, and more potions. I see you ate. Do you want more to eat?"

"No."

"I'll bring you supper later." Orion stood up, brushing some straw from his trousers.

Just like him to ask a question and ignore the response when it didn't mesh with his prior plans.

"Are you truly going to leave me like this? Staying here all alone like this is near torture, I shall surely die of boredom." Zevran laid the back of his hand on his forehead like a fainting maiden in an Orlesian tableau. 

"I have work to do," Orion sighed impatiently. He grumbled under his breath, "Dead of boredom is better than dead in the middle of the road, probably."

But he stepped out of the stall where Zevran's sickbed was arranged. Zevran heard him picking through what sounded like a burlap sack nearby, the rustle of clothes, the clink of bottles (probably lyrium) and finally the smooth sound of skin touching leather. Just as he suspected, Orion produced a book for him out of his belongings. It was old and dog-eared: Orion called such books well-loved.

"Here, read this if you're that bored," Orion said as he handed Zevran the book. "It's all I have, but it's pretty interesting."

_The Book of Shartan._

Orion's favorite. He confessed to reading it twice through, even though they were preoccupied with courtship and the Blight. The old Orion read voraciously, consuming books as rapidly as warriors chugged draughts on the battlefield. It was difficult to imagine him having only one book to his name, but Zevran could understand why it would be this one.

"Is something wrong? Are you feeling alright?"

Zevran realized too late he was staring at the book with a faraway expression.

"Even if you're not Andrastean, there's a lot of insight into the history there. I promise I'm not trying to convert you."

Zevran had to laugh a little. "I did not think so. A mage outside the Circle probably has little use for the Chant of light."

Orion tittered uneasily, shifting his weight from foot to foot.

"I have read this before, but it has been some time," Zevran said. "Thank you."

"Are you sure you're alright?" Orion's brow furrowed.

"Why?"

"You keep staring at me."

"You are quite a handsome man."

Orion turned away quickly, but not before Zevran saw his compliment had the desired effect. The color in his cheeks was high, his posture changed, ducked and nervous.

"Does this bother you?" Once upon a time, Zevran would have promised to stop if the answer was affirmative. He did not know if he could bring himself to stop staring now. Whatever name he went by, this boy was Orion. His Orion, his lost beloved, his air, his life. He could not help but stare. He still had trouble believing his eyes. He was in awe.

"I don't know," Orion struggled, hopping from word to word with great effort. Zevran sensed distress there, but could not place its cause. Perhaps it was the simple fear of living as an apostate. Being memorable might end with him clamped in irons. "I'll be back later, with your supper."

"I eagerly await more time with you," Zevran replied. It only made Orion hurry away faster.

Zevran settled in with the book. Alas, he was never much one for old-fashioned prose. Neither Andraste nor Shartan took their clothes off within the first two chapters, so instead he drifted off to sleep.

He was awakened by the sound and smell of promised supper delivered on tin plates. There was a sparing amount of roast mutton with bread to pick up the juices, and a bowl of cabbage soup. Zevran waited for Orion to clear away before sitting up to eat it. He ate slowly, not so much to savor the mediocre, under-spiced taste of it but to field any averse reaction to the solid food after so long struggling through sickness. His mealtime entertainment was unwittingly provided by Orion, who herded the goats and one fat pony into the stable, and then urged the chickens inside their little coop. He was absolute rubbish with the animals. It was pretty clear the work was given out of charity. Also, the innkeeper’s daughter seemed fond of the lad, always at his heels, asking questions. Orion indulged her a few spins around the yard by her arms, and then played a clapping game before sending her off to her parents. Orion helped scraped the pots and pans in the kitchen after the inn’s only patron went to bed, but this caused a conflict between the innkeeper and her wife, the dwarven cook. It had been agreed Orion would not set foot in the inn, but Orion had only done so at the request of the cook.

Wisely, the mage ducked out before the conversation could become more heated. Zevran would have concentrated on the argument’s finale and its potential for make-up sex if not for a far more interesting diversion. Orion returned to check on him. He settled next to him in the narrow space between the pallet at the wall, sitting cross-legged.

“How are you feeling, Zev? Better?”

“Far better. Stronger.”

“You napped most of the day. I’m afraid you might not have that option for much longer.”

“No?”

“Maybe if you can convince them to take you at the inn. I’ve overstayed my welcome. I’ll be away in the night before they can change their mind about me. You’re strong enough to get through the rest of this on your own. I’ll leave you the rest of my potions.”

“No,” Zevran said. He couldn’t lose Orion again. Not again. Not like this. He didn’t even know why this was happening yet.

“Don’t look at me like that. From the looks of your supplies, you’re a better survivor than I am.”

Zevran saw that Orion felt skittish, no doubt imagining templars kicking down the door of the rickety stable. Now was not the time to discuss who he really was and why he turned up, alive, after all this time. If he was keeping the truth from Zevran he must have good cause. “Where will you be going?”

Orion thinned his lips. “Away from here.”

“No more plans than that?”

Orion shrugged. The motion was both stubborn and ignorant at the same time. Zevran guessed he probably didn’t have a real plan, and no inclination to divulge even a vague detail about what little plan he did have.

“Why do you play at being such an enigma?”

“I’m not playing at anything,” Orion stammered, “I simply don’t know why you want to know.”

“Because you fascinate me.”

“You don’t know the first thing about me.”

“That is where you are wrong. You are an altruist, a healer and an elementalist. You believe in freedom, but have very little of it for yourself. You have always been different, not just because you are a mage, but because of your wit and thoughtfulness, your studious and exacting nature. In spite of caring very much for others, you have always lived apart. Sometimes you even find this urge to help others painful, because you feel you will never be one of them. In spite of feeling you will never be truly accepted, you always attempt to do what is right and what is just. You rarely do things to promote yourself only.”

I also know you are very loved, Zevran thought, but could not bring himself to say.

Orion held Zevran’s gaze for a very long time, biting his lower lip almost to bleeding to keep the wrong words from rushing out. “Who are you, really?” he finally asked, intensely shaken. He looked away, but did not stand up to leave.

“I told you my name already. You do not know of me?”

Orion wrung his hands in his lap, rocking slightly.

“You have never seen my face before?” Zevran prodded.

Orion kept his head bowed. Tears muddied his blue eyes.

Zevran could recall only one time he ever saw Orion so close to tears. They were on the boat to the shores of Lake Calenhad, leaving the Circle behind after restoring order to it. Wynne, freshly recruited to the Warden’s team, seemed to know just what to do, rubbing his back like a mother soothing a child. No tears actually fell that day, and none fell now. Zevran was a poor replacement for Wynne in many respects. He touched Orion’s arm. Orion flinched away.

“Don’t.”

“What have I said to upset you so?” Zevran asked gently.

“It’s none of your concern,” Orion said, too rough and quick to be at all convincing. He sniffed a few times and managed to regain composure.

“You have cared for me, should I not care for you in return?”

Orion’s face was a portrait of pity and heartbreak. “Oh, Zev,” he said, “I am so sorry. I’ve read about things like this. You think you have warm feelings for me because I’ve healed you, aided you while you were helpless. But it wouldn’t be right for me to pursue those feelings, even if I thought you had the slightest idea what you were taking on.”

“I might have a better idea than you know.”

Orion took Zevran’s hand. For a moment, Zevran was sure all the world stopped. He wished it would, so he could remain touching Orion even the smallest way.

“You are a very good looking man,” Orion said, giving his hand a single squeeze, “I’m flattered, but what you feel right now is a fantasy.”

“I do believe you are wrong,” Zevran said it like a teasing joke, but it wasn’t. Not at all.

“All the more reason I should go.”

“Where do you intend to go? Perhaps we could travel together if we are headed in the same direction.”

Orion withdrew his hand. “Do yourself a favor and forget about me.”

“As you have forgotten me?” Zevran let his suspicion slip, his voice raised a little.

“No,” Orion said, blinking rapidly. “That isn’t what I meant. I don’t - I am - I’m sure I’d remember someone like you.”

“Are you?” Zevran volleyed back.

“Am I what?”

“Certain.”

Orion shook his head violently, hair like red fire fanning. He slid backward up the stall wall behind him. He turned heel and stormed outside. Zevran heard him walk in circles in the animals’ yard, eventually settling over by the chicken coup. Zevran expected he would return in short time, if only to retrieve his things before leaving for good. He was right, but not awake to congratulate himself for it. Orion cast a sleep spell from the doorway. When Zevran awakened hours later from a deep, dreamless slumber, the mage was nowhere to be found.

He left behind the one thing he had in the world, his copy of The Book of Shartan. Zevran took this as a sign of providence. Surely he should at least return this prized possession. That was the sort of thing Orion always did, taking the time to find things others thought were lost forever. Though they hadn’t parted on good terms, Zevran knew how Orion delighted in books. He would be happy to see this one returned to him.

Zevran’s muscles were still a bit weak and sore, but he was ready to get a move on. Lingering was just as deadly for master assassins as it was for apostates, though the former might be slightly better at hiding. The innkeeper and her family were shocked to see Zevran up and so well. Orion was right to leave. It was clear the innkeeper found the strength of Orion’s magic disturbing, even when it yielded such positive results.

Despite this, Zevran was able to charm the little girl into divulging the details her parents refused to share. According to her, Lacuna never mentioned a family or friends, but sometimes spoke of life in the alienage. Of course she did not which alienage it might be, she did not even know what an alienage was. That annoyed him, but it was not a conversation he had time for, nor even that much interest in.

Each question seemed to produce only more questions. Once again, the only one who could answer it was not here.

Zevran reluctantly hired a carriage in Highever to complete the journey to Denerim as planned. It did not seem likely Orion would choose to return to the Denerim alienage, even with the library built there in his name. Only a few of the elves there remembered him, as he was very small when the magic manifested. His mother left the alienage years ago, and his father and little brother were among those taken by the slavers. Orion once vowed to find and rescue his family but died instead. In the days after, Zevran performed a thorough search that turned up fruitless. Though he did not wish slavery on anyone, he was a little relieved to not have to give the news of Orion’s death to family that barely knew him. Zevran could be charming, but all evidence pointed to him being wretched at consoling.

He was curious about the journals Alistair mentioned in his letters. They might contain some clue about the current situation and Orion’s mysterious double. Zevran did not know enough about magic to hazard a guess, but he was cautiously optimistic.

How muddled it all was! Perhaps after meeting with Alistair, he could conference with Wynne and her magnificent bosom. Both would see greater insight than the king of Ferelden and a drooling mabari, surely.

Zevran dozed for most the trip to Denerim. He dreamed vividly of his desk in Antiva City. Not an inch of its polished wood surface was visible beneath a pile of sealed letters. He knew each letter contained a message that would save Orion’s life. He did not have much time. Time and again he broke the seal of each letter with a blade only to find the paper blank. As the sun set over Antiva, he wept deeply and profoundly, for he knew he failed to save Orion.

A rat pushed a dagger into the center of the floor. In the act of attempting to brush it away with his foot, Zevran woke up suddenly, kicking the empty seat in front of him.

Night approached. There would soon no light to see the features of the countryside.

Zevran lit a lamp to read _The Book of Shartan _. This time sleep made no approach.__


	3. Nostalgia

By the time the carriage approached Denerim, Zevran was bone-sore and heartsick. He felt no excitement to look upon the tower of Fort Drakon or the city gates. It was dull, brown, and all the high stones seemed to weight his heart further. Denerim was in a far better state than he left it in, though Zevran could not help but wonder if they truly scraped all the darkspawn blood away, or if peasants and urchins still turned up with the taint now and then. He made note to find records back home on the long-term clean up after the Fourth Blight in Antiva, and see copies were sent to Alistair. Something he should have thought of sooner, though it was only recently he came up from the sea of blood long enough to breathe air or make sense of things.

The memories of this place were all the more potent with the passage of time. There at the gates he said what would amount to his final, serious sentiments to Orion, the fury of the archdemon nearly drowning out all thought. Here on this street Orion hopped from cobblestone to cobblestone, attempting to avoid the cracks and grinning sheepishly when someone noticed it. It was one of his little quirks, like how he lined up empty lyrium and potion bottles around his tent and chewed on his hair.

_“Finally! Somewhere I can have a bath!” Orion gushed the first time they entered Denerim. “This is where I was born, Zev. Is Antiva City like this?”_

_“Antiva City is very much like this, except larger, with more canals, and stinking of fish instead of dogs. Also, there are no elves quite so good looking there now that I have gone.”_

Happier times. As soon as Zevran departed the carriage and passed the city gates, he was greeted by the very distinctive bay of a battle hound. Unlike some of the passers-by, Zevran was not shocked or dismayed when Chompy greeted him by knocking him over and slobbering on his face. He laughed and scratched behind his ears. “Very well, you have made your point! Alistair will be missing you, no?”

Chompy tilted his head and stepped off Zevran, allowing the elf to stand. Zevran grunted as he stood, brushing the dirt off. “Now that I am thoroughly greeted, you can return to Alistair. I have a few errands to run.” He wished to shop for supplies before he was sighted at the palace, avoiding suspicious gazes. “Go on now, shoo.”

Chompy whined and ducked his head a little. He wagged his stubby tail and refused to be shooed. Zevran sighed. The last thing he wanted was to call attention to himself. Mabari typified Fereldan human tradition, which made him an oddity twice for having one follow him. Still, he knew better than to argue with a dog who bore more resemblance to ancient stone carvings of Fen’harel than the trembling ratlike creatures favored in Antivan court. There was no way he came out of that conversation a winner. Besides, he looked after Zevran as one of his pack. Out of respect to Orion, he could tolerate the presence of a cumbersome canine.

An order from Orion or Alistair like ‘Protect my friends’ held a deep meaning to the likes of Chompy. Zevran understood loyalty well. It probably came even easier to dogs than it did to Crows. So Chompy tagged along, occasionally drawing the interest of grubby children. Zevran pressed silvers in their filthy palms and sent them on their way with a smile. He would not have called it charity, precisely: he kept them from having to try and cut the purse of the likes of him. If someone tried that, he might accidentally kill them and he’d rather not gut a child. Really, it was all about avoiding children’s blood on his boots. For whatever reason, it was always the worst to clean off.

The market was much as he remembered it, though in his memories it was dappled sun and today brought clouds that threatened rain. There were a few more merchant stands, and the Chantry took pilgrims once more. The citizens seemed more or less content, though many were hungry, or their faced etched with lines of worry about money and children. They traded coin freely, moved at their own pace instead of in fear of darkspawn hiding in their shadows. Anora and Alistair were doing well by the city, and so far as Zevran had seen, the rest of Ferelden too. Not bad, considering what was lost in the Blight.

Zevran took his time shopping, perusing some daggers and more mundane things like weapon and armor polish. He put the fear of the Maker into an Antivan dealer selling poisons and trap materials just by browsing and smiling. He bought half her stock to smooth out most of her impressions, and offered a saucy wink to smooth out the rest of them.

_“I can’t believe you flirted just to get a discount!” Orion gasped, hands on hips as they left a shop. “She really liked you. Are you always such a heart breaker?”_

_“It is my duty to use my skills where they are most needed,” Zevran insisted. “Unless, of course, it makes you too jealous?”_

_“Why would I be jealous?” Orion mumbled, looking away. Leliana had a knowing smile._

_Ah, Zevran thought. That is something._

Zevran ducked into a fancy dress shop near the palace. The attendants turned their nose up at the sight of the mabari, but none approached him. They were busy altering some dowdy pink thing. He admired the dresses for a few moment. All were finely made with deft, careful fingers. The fabric was better than most of the city could ever afford, yet he knew for a fact the poorest of women tailored these.

_Leliana stopped to peer in the doorway first. “What pretty dresses! The style is a bit more elaborate in Val Royeaux, but that gown is the most exquisite shade of blue.”_

_“I was kicked out of this place,” Orion said, looking uncomfortable. “There was an issue with the family friend who usually looked after me while my parents were working, so my mother took me to sit behind the counter. She did on-the-spot repairs and so on. The owner happened to come by and she slapped my mother and pitched me into the street by the ear. After that, mother had to work in the warehouse, shoulder-to-shoulder with other women in a hot, dusty space. She worked for years to move up to that position and it was gone in a moment. Then there was a fire at the warehouse. Other women died, from smoke inhalation, and from being trampled when everyone tried to get out. Mother was always sick and coughing after that.”_

_Leliana looked as if she sipped curdled milk. “Come to think of it, these dresses aren’t anything special.”_

_Zevran patted Orion’s back._

_“When we have saved all of Ferelden, I am taking you here to be fitted for the finest formal robes money can buy. And we will tell the dressmaker to sew every stitch herself or fall to ruin.”_

_Orion laid his hand over Zevran’s, and laughed._

_“I always dreamed of wearing something from that shop.”_

_“You want to wear a dress?” Alistair asked, always ten steps behind the conversation. “Isn’t that sort of - mages are always saying robes are different.”_

_“Orion can wear whatever he likes,” Zevran purred. “Beauty deserves beauty.”_

_Orion took a step away, clearing his throat and shaking his head. “Shut up.”_

_But he was grinning._

“Can I help you?” One of the elves behind the corner finally asked after pulling pins from her mouth. The sneer that accompanied her question belied her lack of sincerity.

“Just shopping around,” Zevran said with a vague wave of his hand. “Do you have something he would look good in?”

Chompy yapped cheerfully.

“I think he’d look good outside,” she grimaced.

“I think I would as well,” Zevran cordially agreed, and took his leave.

Zevran stopped by the gates of the alienage. They were open, a comforting sight after so many troubles there.

_“What do you mean it’s closed? I have family in there!”_

_Typically, Zevran would have found the way Orion stomped his foot to be adorable. This time it was marred with trouble. Grey Warden or no, an outburst of magic in a crowded street would not bode well for them._

_“It’s under quarantine.”_

_“But I’m a healer. If people are sick in there, I could...”_

_“Those are the Arl’s orders,” the guard said._

_Orion stopped to beg with the guard several times while they stayed in Denerim, and the few times they came back after then. When they were finally granted, there was a stink of sickness and despair in the air. Not quite so heavy as the Deep Roads or the infested Circle, but somehow just as tragic._

_“If we are too late...” Orion whispered. Zevran linked their fingers together and squeezed. Zevran nodded, and they moved on together._

The alienage seemed cleaner than Zevran remembered, and near the gate he could see a fine new building. It was hardly grand or palatial, but it was a fine, large building for the alienage, with newly-laid stone steps yet to be marked with drunken piss or vomit. As he recalled, the first two floors made up the library, and upper floors provided more housing to the cramped quarters of the neighborhood. It was a fine idea, conscious of the needs of elves. He wondered how long it would take to be looted or burned down. He wondered if the elves wouldn’t have preferred the money poured into the library to be used to repair all the houses.

He saw a familiar flash of red milling about near the library steps. Zevran hurried past the gates, but there was no trace of Orion when he stood before the library. Chompy sprinted behind him, upsetting several elves. Zevran found himself at the receiving end of half a dozen dirty looks.

Fortunately, another redhead spotted him, calling to him by name. Zevran recognized the woman as Shianni, a leader in the alienage during its troubles years ago. He spoke to her once, briefly, after the fighting was done, searching for scraps of information on the Suranas. She was eager to help and see what was left of her kin freed, and passionately disappointed when Zevran’s efforts turned up nothing.

“What brings you to the alienage? People are going to think you’re here to cause trouble, entering these gates armed to the teeth and looking like an assassin.”

“I am an assassin,” Zevran pointed out, “But I am not here to kill anyone.”

“You think we’d let you?”

I think you would have no choice. Zevran shook his head. “I am looking for someone. A young man, in his early to mid twenties. Red hair, dark of skin, blue eyes. He goes by the name of Lacuna. He has a calm but kind disposition. I last saw him dressed in typical rags.”

Zevran saw Shianni’s faint hope of good news transform into worry. To her credit, her expression remained neutral. “Doesn’t ring a bell. And I meet everyone who comes around here.”

The other elves were noticeably giving them a wide berth as they passed through the gates to their homes or the venedahl, sparing only curious glances. It was clear they trusted Shianni to handle any trouble that arrived in their midst, but Zevran did not doubt for a moment all would leap to defend her if he so much as reached for a blade. Even without that, she was a formidable woman in her own right.

“Is that so?” Zevran raised an eyebrow.

“Yes.” Shianni was as fierce as she was the moment he and Orion met her, though the anger was slightly tempered now. In another lifetime, he surely would have pursued her strength, wit and beauty. Perhaps he was fated for redheads.

“If that’s all you wanted, Zevran, I suggest you leave. The city guard don’t like armed elves in the alienage and the last thing I need is them harassing my people because you like looking dangerous.”

“Of course,” Zevran said with exaggerated graciousness, giving an equally theatrical bow. “Do I have your permission to linger a short spell while pumping coins into your sadly faded district or shall I leave at once?”

“You can go to Alarith,” Shianni said with narrowed eyes. “But leave after that, or I’m kicking you out myself.”

“Your wish is my command,” Zevran said, fluttering eyelashes. Shianni scoffed, but did not leave. She forced Zevran to be the one to walk away, turning his back on her. He could feel her gaze singing the hair on the back of his neck.

Alarith the shopkeeper was actually a better liar than Shianni. Perhaps not surprising: if he recalled correctly, Alarith was once a Tevinter slave. Slaves learned to tell lies with their whole body. Zevran knew well about that. Upon Zevran’s description he mentioned some young men who only halfway fit the bill and then said, “The only one I’ve met like that would be Kiel Surana, I guess, the kid would be over twenty now. But you made no mention of--”

“Of?” Zevran prodded.

“Kiel was a bit different,” Alarith said with a dismissive shrug. “It’s not my place to say even that, honestly. Anyway, you know what happened to the Suranas. All of them are dead, or long gone from here. In the case of Kiel and the father... it might be better if they’re dead than if they ended in Tevinter.”

“Some might not be half as dead as they seem,” Zevran murmured.

“What?”

“It is nothing,” Zevran said, and paid too much for several stolen daggers he had absolutely no use for.

Zevran left the alienage satisfied he knew where Orion was. He would be safe under Shianni’s watchful eye. The alienage was a good spot to hide out temporarily, but he still did not understand why Orion would not return to his friends at the palace. He must miss his mabari terribly, having been parted from him this long. No matter what the reason for this farce, as a Grey Warden and friend of the king he would be protected from templars. So why the squalor of the alienage? Once again, a day’s work yielded him nothing but more questions.

It was time to stop dawdling and present himself at the palace. There he could have a fine meal and bath such as Orion was so fond of, and sleep in a real bed. Zevran found his heart relieved to know for certain he and Orion slept in the same city again. It was only a matter of time until he unraveled his mystery and they could travel side-by-side again. It filled his heart with a lightness he hadn’t experienced since Orion accepted his earring.

Here, in the city full of their memories, they would surely be reunited for good.

Chompy announced their arrival at the palace steps with much baying and bellowing. He shot past the guards who opened the grand door, all bark, fur and muscle. Zevran could not tell if Alistair held himself more solidly when he was tackled by mabari, or if Chompy held back his enthusiasm, but the king was not knocked down by the greeting. Probably better that way. It would not do for the King of Ferelden to be seen rolling around on the floor with a dog.

Or perhaps that would only serve to improve his popularity. Zevran made note to ask him about it later.

“Zev!” Alistair said, giving his comrade a big clap on the back. He looked like he was playing at dress up in his courtly clothes, but it was clear he still kept up with his drills, and in fact still carried a sword and shield out of habit, even within the castle walls. “I was beginning to think you wouldn’t make it in time for the dedication ceremony.”

“I was delayed on the road,” Zevran said with a smile, returning the back-slap with equal heartiness, though his blows would never equal one of a warrior’s.

“Nothing too bad, I hope?” Alistair grimaced.

“Nothing to worry a king with, just the sort of distractions one as handsome as I must inevitably find myself waylaid by,” Zevran teased. “Come, there must be wine in this palace of yours. It has been far too long since I have seen you, and there is much I must have your opinion on.”

“Anora and I will throw you a proper arrival feast tomorrow, provided you even want one,” Alistair said apologetically. “For the time being, I’ll have some food and wine brought up to my room. You’re right. There’s a lot we have to talk about.”

Alistair’s jaw was set with more strength than Zevran remembered. It was as Orion predicted: he became a good ruler with the right person leading his way. The years of difficult decisions brought a few strands of silver into his blond hair, and lines under his eyes and by his mouth from frowning rather than laughter. They seemed all the more pronounced with paired with the soft, almost puppy like worry Zevran long associated him. Though he was being somber, it made Zevran want to pet him on the head.

“Let me at least change out of these dirty, weary clothes,” Zevran said, “I am in no state for a private audience with a king. Even if the king is someone I’ve seen rinsing his socks out a mountain stream, naked.”

“Don’t wear anything too scandalous,” Alistair said with a shake of his head. “Or do,” he said with a smirk. “We could use some diverting gossip around here.”

“Oho, how our little bastard prince has grown up,” Zevran smirked. “I wonder if his wife appreciates it. I will have to ask her.”

“Go,” Alistair said, “Get ready. I promise you’ll have plenty of time to make trouble with my wife later. Though I think you’ll find she matches your wit and then some... if she even thinks you’re worth the bother.”

Alas, Zevran didn't bring sufficiently scandalous evening wear. He settled instead with a red silk tunic with gold accents. He bought it ages ago to attend Alistair’s coronation, but that day found him in mourning blacks instead. It seemed appropriate to wear an outfit he once hoped to impress Orion with.

There was a skip in his step as the king’s guard escorted him to Alistair’s quarters. It was actually a rather humble room, considering. Not a bedroom, but a sort of small study, with a desk, a small table, a modest fireplace and bookshelf. The walls were decorated with tapestries and shields from Redcliffe. He wondered if it was out of Alistair’s personal taste, or if these gifts were hidden away at Anora’s request.

Chompy sat happily gnawing a beef bone in front of the fire place. Alistair stood examining the fire, hands behind his back. Zevran admired the pleasant shape of his posterior. It did somehow seem more royal like this, perhaps shaped by the burden of sitting on the throne.

One of the tables was loaded up with meat, bread, cheese and apples. Zevran palmed an apple immediately. The guards closed the door behind him.

“As happy as I am to be invited to the opening of Orion’s library, that cannot be the real reason you called me here,” Zevran says, slicing up the apple and a piece of cheese on top of it. He gobbled it in an impressively delicate fashion, if he did say so himself.

“It’s not,” Alistair sighed. “I didn’t feel right opening that journal of Orion’s.”

“If you were concerned about some spell exploding in the face of the reader, it might have been better sent to the Circle, though I appreciate your respect for my ability with traps.”

The joke was thin and lifeless. It fell dead in the center of the room. Zevran mourned it not.

“It isn’t just that, Zevran.” Alistair turned around. His brow furrowed, his eyes were that of a truly devastated friend.

“The journal is in the desk drawer over there. Along with... well, maybe you should just see it for yourself.”

Alistair didn’t do secretive well, Zevran decided. He ought to give him lessons. Just the same, here he was trying to draw out one encounter instead of being direct right out the gate. It clearly wasn’t out of a sense of timing or drama, since Alistair was possessed of neither. Which meant the truth must be so terrible he simply could not bear to present it in a straightforward manner.

He only knew it must have something to do with Orion. His mouth was dry in spite of the apple. He awkwardly set the rest of the slices back on the platter and moved to open the desk drawer.

Inside was a familiar journal. Bound in leather, Orion once filled every page with his flowing script. This in itself was was quite the treasure, but in that desk something gleamed far more brightly.

A golden earring on a chain. Orion wore it round his neck beneath his robes at all times. “So that you might always be close to my heart, Zevran.”

Orion was buried with that necklace.

Zevran’s voice was so loud and rough he thought someone else was speaking. “Where,” he asked, his words echoing in his ears, “Did you find this?”


	4. Nightmares

Zevran vividly recalled the exact moment he accepted he was in love with Orion.

_He had long been in love, though trying to deny it. He was probably a little bit in love from the very first moment they met, if such things were really possible. He was certainly intrigued. Zevran dreaded that truth, swore to himself he was only reflecting the warmth in Orion’s eyes when they spoke. There was no way a man like him could ever really love, he thought himself smitten once and killed the very object of his affection. He could not be the one to lead Orion to such a fate, not when he needed protecting from all of the other dangers around him._

_There were scant days before the Landsmeet. As Zevran feared he would, Orion grew grimmer by the moment. His smiles were scarce, his laughs nonexistent. He was driven by duty, shunning even Wynne’s attempts at conversation. He spent most of his nights obsessively inventorying his equipment or reading anything new he’d turned up on blights or spells. He carried each stone of Fort Drakon on his back still, and his shoulders sagged from the weight. His nervous habits became full-on distractions. He bit and pulled at the dried skin on his lips till they were bloodied, matching his cuticles. This was particularly dangerous, since he could inadvertently dose himself with lyrium too quickly on the battlefield... or when he quaffed some to sharpen his concentration when he thought no one was looking. Yet he snapped at any mention of healing or balms, claiming he would have his face ‘fixed’ for the Landsmeet only._

_Zevran suspected Orion’s quirks were an expression of stress, a relief from minor irritations. Ripping a rough cuticle might soothe much larger wounds for a short time, even if carried too far. He saw similar habits develop in some of the Crows growing up. Not everyone who grew up under constant threat came out of it laughing the way Zevran did. Some of them came out with more scars than their Crow masters inflicted. Orion once drew him a map of the invisible scars on his body, bubbling burns and nail scrapes he said he used to improve his healing craft in secret. Compared to those, a bitten lip seemed a small wound, though he suspected the lyrium burned worse in its own way._

_Zevran ought to have been comforting Orion in his wordless struggles and given him something to do other than fret. A single gold earring was not enough to express his gratitude, no matter what its emotional value. He received his share of comments from the the busybodies of the group that Orion seemed lonely, but he was uncertain what he could offer the mage._

_Taliesin and Rinna filled Zevran’s mind. Lovers dead in the dirt now, both, their eyes forever staring with surprise and accusation. His own eyes, reflected in pools of blood beneath them, gazed back deader than theirs._

_He was nothing more than a murderer of all things beloved and precious. Zevran could not save them. Nor could he save Orion, even from himself. He did not even have the faintest idea of how to try. If this was love as people were naturally meant to feel it, surely his instincts would lead him better. He would know how to calm Orion’s tics and twitches with words of affection. He would distract Orion from his talk of scars with gentle touch. Orion could not drink lyrium if his thirst was slaked instead by lovers’ lips._

_But Zevran did not know these things. Thus, he convinced himself it was nothing more than a deep friendship, a connection shared by those who slept and fought side-by-side.'_

_In spite of Orion’s other worries and mounting anxieties, one night he approached Zevran and shyly asked him to bed. Zevran’s throat went sour. He refused and felt his cheeks color with disgust and shame. Orion asked this simple thing of him, and yet he failed to perform the very thing a lover should find most important. He could not give his body when his mind was in such conflict. Any tender touch would only hasten his descent into this affection-born madness. He feared it. He, the creature who could manipulate others like a puppeteer, who faced hordes of darkspawn and laughed, was afraid of love._

_“It’s fine, don’t worry,” Orion assured him. He held Zevran’s hand a moment and squeezed it. “These last few days have left me awfully tired anyway. Take as much time as you need to think it over.”_

_Orion seemed reluctant to withdraw his touch. It was a slow slide, until only their fingertips brushed. They parted company finger by finger._

_The question must have been on both of their minds, what if Zevran didn’t have as much time as he needed? What if tonight was their last night? Yet Orion demanded nothing and therefore received nothing._

_He did not seem to hold it against him, either. He offered one last weary smile and left._

_Zevran was struck dumb. He knew at that moment he was desperate to keep Orion with him, even if they only sat talking a little while. Orion merely retired to his room down the hall, yet the distance seemed an insurmountable gulf, so deeply Zevran was paralyzed by the realization. He needed Orion closer, even if he had no idea what to do or say, no balm for his many aches, no words of assurance. It would be better than this separation. It killed him to have two doors and a bit of hallway separating him. They needed each other now._

_And always._

That same sense of overwhelming distance dizzied Zevran when he saw the glint of his gold earring in the desk drawer. He felt the pain raw and fresh, ten times the strength of a broken bone. This is what songs and poems meant when they spoke of broken hearts, but the bards and poets were full of shit. They could have no idea how it felt to lose someone as precious as Orion. They could have no idea what it meant to see the object he always wore closest sitting in a desk drawer as if it were some ordinary thing, no more important than the king’s letter opener or royal seal.

It should not be there. It could only be there if Orion was truly gone. Zevran thought he might vomit.

“Some sick bastards dug up his body in the dead of night. The earring was found discarded by his monument, along with his robes.” Alistair did not bother to keep the anger from his voice. Yet even his anger, he was sharply focused, calm. The warm, comfortable room did not see him relax a bit.

“Darkspawn?”

“They would never be so bold as to attack Weisshaupt outright so soon after a blight, even if they were intelligent or organized enough to do it. And the Grey Wardens there would sense their approach.”

“Mages, then?”

“That’s the most likely answer, considering the guards at the monument were put to sleep. His was the only grave taken, of course he is... fresher, compared to the other Heroes of the Blight.” The disgust on Alistair’s face pleased Zevran in a perverse way. He enjoyed the confirmation that Alistair still held some strangely delicate sensibilities, had not become utterly hard-hearted. He found it somehow comforting.

“Because of the suspected blood magic, the templars in the area are also aiding investigation. They will be searching for any signs of them in the Anderfels, and Wardens and templars all over have been told to keep an eye for any signs of trouble.”

Zevran did not remember picking up the necklace, yet he gripped it in a fist, felt its weight indenting a mark in his palm. He could not decide what horrified him more: the idea of someone twisting his lover’s beautiful body for their own sick purpose, or the idea of templars hunting for Orion, no matter what the reason.

Zevran’ wanted to believe Orion would never have anything to do with schemes of corpses and blood magic. Orion found all manner of necromanced beasts to be not only ‘icky gross’, as he would say, but very sad on a spiritual level. He would not have any part of this purposefully. But Zevran could not rule out that some thing might have been done against his will, which might explain his secretive nature. He could depend on Zevran’s ignorance for his very survival.

“There are no leads, currently, but there are some theories. It could be the work of a cult who found some use for his blood, or essence.”

“Then why only him? Would not the Warden Riordan have sufficed? Or you.”

“Orion was different, important. Grey Warden stuff. Without going too far into it, it’s something that the Wardens are taking very, very seriously.”

Zevran forced his hand to open, relaxing each muscle with great, intense thought, finger by finger. He stared down at the glinted, warm gold. He could no longer remember what it looked like adorning the merchant prince’s ear. All he remembered was how it winked from afar on the battlefield, freed from its hiding place beneath Orion’s robes and dangling from his throat on its simple chain.

“It’s also possible that someone wants to bring Orion back in some way, possibly to impersonate him or to get to one of us. It could be me, what with being king and all, but my guess you’re the target. So you must be careful. There are many tales of magic gone wrong that involve misusing the face of someone dear.” Alistair said the last part as something he clearly heard time and again during his templar training, almost too perfectly recited to be taken seriously.

Zevran knew the appropriate thing to do would be to thank Alistair for involving him and worrying about him. After all, he was a dangerous person to have around, and very busy with his own work. With Orion dead, there was no reason for him to be more than a footnote in Fereldan history. But somewhere along the road, Alistair had come to respect him as a friend in spite of their differences. He was thankful Alistair still considered him such after all this time, and Orion’s death.

“Did Orion really die?” Zevran asked quietly, more to himself than really expecting an answer.

“It doesn’t seem real to me either. Sometimes I still can’t believe Duncan is dead, and the other Wardens... and somehow I just really believed Orion would make it. I would have struck the final blow if I could’ve.” Alistair shook his head. “Their sacrifices weren’t in vain. Orion would be happy to see how far the new Circle has come. And the library is really something. The only way he would’ve loved it better is if it had as much lyrium as it does books.”

“I was so certain, once,” Zevran murmured. Orion turned all the fundamental truths of Zevran’s world on their ears. It seemed fitting he could deny the truest thing Zevran knew, the inevitability and permanence of death.

“Zev,” Alistair said softly, “Are you okay? Maybe you should sit down.”

“He couldn’t truly be brought back as he was, could he? Such things are impossible.”

“If they did raise his body, it wouldn’t really be him, Zev,” Alistair said softly. He put his hand on Zevran’s shoulder, nudging him gently toward a chair in front of the fire. “It might have his face, but it wouldn’t be him. It would be an abomination.”

“Would nothing remain of him? His personality, his voice, his healing?”

_You don’t know the first thing about me,_ Zevran heard Orion-calling-himself-Lacuna say.

“Not likely. We’ve fought things like that. It’s not impossible one of them could heal itself, but it wouldn’t be like Orion. Dead is dead.” Alistair said softly, evenly.

Zevran felt a wicked smile blossom on his face. “And if I refuse to believe that? Merely as a hypothetical.”

“It doesn’t make it less true,” Alistair said, brow furrowing. He didn’t have a face for cards, but facing darkspawn taught him to control his fear. It only twitched a little in the corner of one of his eyes. “I suppose I would worry... merely as a hypothetical. You were there, Zev. You know he’s gone.” Maker, but he looked like he might cry with each word.

“Right, of course,” Zevran said, quickly waving the thought away.

It wasn’t a convincing enough performance. “Orion wouldn’t want to come back, Zev,” Alistair warned. “Not like that. Those mages are the opposite of what he was - using their magic to pervert the natural order of things.”

Alistair would not help him, Zevran decided. He would not believe Orion was anything but an abomination. Whatever Zevran’s next move, he would plan it alone.

“You’re right,” Zevran said, “Sometimes, I only hope... oh Alistair, it has been awful with him gone. And now to hear that someone might try to bring him back, but as some horrible thing.” He shook his head sadly. “For a moment, my heart dared hope, but you are right. Dead is dead, such is the Maker’s will.”

Zevran thought he might be laying it on a little bit too thick by bringing in the Maker, but Alistair seemed to take the bait. “If there’s anything I can do, Zevran, anything at all, you know I’ll do it.”

Zevran raised an eyebrow. “Anything? Are you so sure you wish to offer me this? What if I said I could be helped only with leather and spanking?”

“Did I say anything? I meant anything normal,” Alistair sputtered.

King or not, Zevran could still make him blush.

 

Castles never truly went to sleep. Guards patrolled the halls and walkways and other vulnerable spots. Servants worked and bickered to each other deep into the night. It pleased Zevran to see Alistair did not allow his castle’s security to lapse into complacency during peace time, still keeping to the advice Zevran offered when he left. Infiltration or even an inside attack by the Crows would be very difficult. Alistair even placed some of the most trusted of his guard at Zevran’s door. After the night’s conversation, it could be that they were also meant to spy and report behavior. Zevran briefly considered getting rowdy with a chamber maid just so they would have something to report, but his heart wasn’t in it. Bedding some wench with Orion was like wielding a splintered wooden sword when fine Antivan steel was close at hand.

Chompy had not left Zevran’s side since the conference with Alistair. Before opening the window, Zevran made sure the mabari was happily supplied with several large, meaty beef bones purloined from the kitchen. As always, the hound was ridiculously easy to bribe with food. He didn’t even pause snacking when Zevran opened the window and climbed out.

Because of the excellent discipline of the guard, slipping out was an amusing puzzle rather than mere child’s play. Zevran timed his exit out the window and onto the castle outer walls perfect, silently jumping when he was just out of the night patrol’s sight. So the guard was not perfect. There was a reason Zevran warned Alistair and Anora to have weapons at the ready by their beds.

As a child, Zevran always enjoyed games of leaping and running. He felt that familiar giddiness as he caught his footing jumping from roof to roof, and had to resist the urge to whoop and throw his arms up. It was similarly difficult not to pause and play voyeur to the night birds of the city, but he could not allow his task to be distracted.

The alienage was less active than some other parts of the city. The occasional drunk stirred and shuffled by, and he overheard one couple in one of the apartments near the gate having boisterous sex. A pity one of them was faking the enthusiasm, Zevran thought as he climbed to the top of the library, giving himself a crow’s eye view. Each building seemed to tilt like a child unable to keep its sleep-heavy head up dozing in a disorganized circle around the venedahl. One by one, the lamps winked out, until only the elder’s house and a scant few others remained. This sleepiness shattered with the sound of breaking crockery and a drunken squabble in the far corner.

Shianni appeared from the elder’s house. She carried no lamp, perfectly able to navigate her neighborhood in the near-dark without it. Zevran saw his opportunity to approach while she was out. He dropped into the narrow alley behind Shianni’s house, peering in the opened back window.

There was Orion, up with a lamp and absorbed in a book. He wrapped his hair around one finger, tugging at it absently as he kicked bare feet toward the ceiling on the top bunk. Zevran remained in the shadows as he observed. He saw no darkness of intent in the elf’s face, yet it was familiar as ever. In the few minutes Zevran sat there Orion finished his chapter, dog-eared the book to mark his spot and placed the book on the bed stand.

He sat in rapt attention as Orion quickly undressed from his ordinary rags into a threadbare shift. Zevran saw only brief flashes of brown shoulder and buttocks, but the bone structure was as he remembered. Orion once carried the barest memory of pudge around his middle, carved away by the harshness of his Warden duties. Now he was skinnier, ribs and the light notch of spine showing from days on the road living hand-to-mouth.

Zevran wondered if the skin would taste different, stretched over bone like that.

Orion killed the lamp and climbed not into one of the bunks, but a sad straw mattress on the bed. Shianni would have one of the beds, but Zevran did not see who the other bunk could belong to. He would need to be careful of a third resident. He listened carefully but could only hear the faintest sound of the altercation Shianni left to calm on the other side of the alienage. The boisterous couple seemed to have moved on to mutually masturbating, but both of them seemed to enjoy it more, so good for them. Zevran attempted the window, but it was high off the ground on this side, and terribly narrow besides. Rare was the city elf who could afford poured glass windows and metal hinges: the other windows were fixed with pinned oil cloth that would be damaged by entry. After a thorough search he found the only way into the squat little house was the door in front, leaving him exposed to the rest of the alienage. Armed with lock-picks and a Crow master’s nerves he silently broke into the house.

No one else was home. Staying to the shadows, Zevran crept into the back room where Orion slept on the floor.

Orion lay coiled on one side, covers pulled up under his armpits. Zevran crouched over him, watching the rise and fall of his breath. He thought there should be something. There should be a smell, like blood, poison or smoke, or the heavy bouquet of bloated, rotten corpse. There should be some unholy sound, flesh moving across unnaturally across brittle bone when Orion shifted in his sleep or sighed. In fact, Zevran had never heard of an abomination that needed to sleep.

He could not stay long. If Shianni found him here she would not understand. While she probably lacked the training to kill him, he was certain she would come far too close. With a touch as light as a breeze he pushed Orion’s hair away from his ear, tucking it behind.

Orion smelled of Andraste’s grace, old books and lyrium. Zevran briefly entertained the thought of kissing him like that princess in a tower fairy tale.

“Orion,” he whispered in his lover’s ear. “Please remember me. Please come back to me.”

Zevran hid in the shadow of the bunk bed when Orion sat bolt upright, chest heaving from the fright. Orion lit the lamp with a bit of fire and stood, shaking so badly he could barely stand. “Shianni?” he called. His voiced raised with panic. “Shianni?!”

Still sleep-sluggish, Orion stumbled into the living room without thinking to bring the lamp. Zevran hoisted up to the window. Nearly had to dislocate his shoulder just to get out of that window, thank the Maker he kept so flexible.

“Maker,” he heard Orion choke in front room, and the soft sound that he guessed was Orion falling to his knees. Zevran regretted that he could not have stayed and spoken with him properly, but how could he get close without everything seeming so wrong? Shianni returned a moment later.

“Did I forget to lock that...?” she muttered. A hurried sound, and Shianni’s voice was lower to the ground when he heard it again. “Lacuna, are you alright? Are you awake?”

“There was someone in my room,” Orion said thickly. “I heard him - felt him.”

“Did you see anyone?” Here Shianni sounded to be headed into the next room. Zevran was around the corner just as Shianni stuck the lamp and her head out the window.

“No. Maybe it was a dream, but it was so vivid. I could swear someone touched me while I was sleeping.”

“Maybe it was a cat. I warned you about keeping that window open.”

“I - I will from now on. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have made such a fuss.”

“No, it’s okay. I should have told you I was going out for a bit. Do you want off the floor? Maybe a glass of wine?”

“No wine,” Orion said weakly, “I think I might vomit.”

“Tea?”

“Yes please.”

Zevran listened from beneath the kitchen window as Shianni prepared them a pot of tea.

“It might take some time to feel okay,” Shianni said, “But it does get better.”

Zevran tried to imagine what might have transposed between Orion and Shianni. They seemed to get along well when they met before, but Orion was never interested in women. Never interested in anyone but him.

“Just give it time,” Shianni said.

“That was so strange, not like the other nightmares at all.”

“Wanna talk about it?”

“No,” Orion said, muffled by the tea cup.

Zevran sat listening for nearly two hours more, still as a stone while Shianni gossiped about the drunk couple that was a constant disturbance and other such things. She was fiery and passionate, with all the ferocious love and dedication of a mother wolf. Ordinarily, Zevran would have been quite fond of the woman.

Orion barely spoke two more words. Zevran remained nearby for at least another half hour after both went to bed, straining to hear the rise and fall of each of Orion’s breaths. An hour before dawn Zevran forced himself to leave. The laborers were rising for the day and he could not risk being seen. He was an elf, but he was not an elf from here. Being caught under someone’s window or scaling a wall would put the alienage on high alert, and jeopardize his chance to return. 

"Until tomorrow, _mi amor_."


End file.
